


Silence

by hazk



Series: Limbo [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Season/Series 15, s15 e18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazk/pseuds/hazk
Summary: "Just… Fine."





	Silence

After Tucker returned to the others, and with Grif following right behind him, there had been more of that easygoing acceptance that had been building up for the hours after their reunion. Simmons didn’t know what to say or if it was his place to bring it - _what it?_ \- up anyway, not with the way his earlier conversations with Grif had already ended: like nothing had changed.

Simmons had missed him and that was a fact; how Grif had come when called and played a part in saving them from Temple's trap, was just another.

 _Hate glue_  Grif had called it, himself, and it had been a while since Simmons had been so completely at a loss for words as he had the moment that "talk" had passed. Maybe it had been a joke? And even if it hadn't, should he just take it as such and let it go, now that they were back together, as a team, again.

With Tucker's speech now done, the reporters, Reds and Blues were gathering by the ship to make their way to hunt down Temple, along with his failure of a doomsday machine. And still, Simmons found himself pulling at his fingers as he followed in Grif’s steps. He couldn’t stop thinking about exactly what he should do next, although maybe the obvious answer was to focus on the mission at hand.

But it was hard to focus on anything else when Grif was finally back. And wrong.

As the two of them approached the ship, there was a moment where Simmons could actually hear the way the orange trooper slipped into the pattern that almost made Simmons trip on his feet, violently snapping his helmet around to see Grif point out a few seemingly unimportant details around them with unnerving glee – a serial number typed to the hull of the ship, and the colour of the seats being the same shade as those inside Locus’ own. This wasn't the first time it had happened in the short time after the cells, but in the calm before the coming fight the switch caught Simmons completely off guard.

When Grif turned to move on, having fallen silent again all within a split-second, Simmons swallowed the feeling of threat those few passing words had brought out of him. Or he tried to do that, at least.

He just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be feeling, Simmons found himself thinking in growing panic as he watched Grif disappear inside the ship. They had just been freed from certain-death at the hands of a Blue-lunatic, so Simmons was still understandably relieved about that one. And sure, there was the thing with Church but, since he had never been around for them to find, and save, in the first place, there was very little to do with the information but to allow some sense of grief to settle in. Again. And then Washington, too, but… Yeah.

The big thing was, of course, the fact that Grif was back.

Grif, who was making too many comments in the passing that no one else seemed to pay any attention to. Grif, who Simmons could see trying to hold himself back from _something_ , to the best of his ability. Grif, who had dropped down on one of the seats, with a visible sense of relief building around him, too, as he watched the Reds and Blues with a keen focus that he hadn't showed before, Simmons didn’t think.

Behind his visor, Simmons bit his lip and burrowed his teeth deep enough in the flesh to draw out blood, completely unaware of why he was doing that, either. As casually as he could, he took his place on the side opposite to Grif, only one seat further to his left to not have to sit directly in front of the other.

Simmons didn’t know what was making him seek that distance after all those regrets and finally getting his teammate back, but there was no denying how thankful he was for the cover his visor provided as he now found himself staring at Grif. And if Grif could tell he was doing that, as he normally would, he didn’t point it out.

Grif was acting off; Simmons could have, should have, said so much more; now they were heading back to Earth.

With intent, Simmons managed to shut all of those thoughts out for as long as Dylan and Carolina and Sarge and Tucker and _literally everyone else but him and Grif_ went through the nonexistent plans they had for surprising Temple’s crew. The drill didn’t work, Dylan had already explained that part to them, so now all that was left was capturing the copy-soldiers and prove to the UNSC that they were the ones behind everything the Reds and Blues had, so far, been blamed for.

The idea for their infiltration was very simple: break in, split into teams when given the chance, find each of the Blues and Reds, and take them out. If facing Temple, do so from a distance and without any delay.

Once that had been established, everyone scattered around the small space the ship offered, preparing themselves while Carolina rested. Simmons didn’t dare to move, and in no time his eyes turned back to Grif’s unmoving visor directed straight at him.

Simmons managed to bite down the yelp as he jumped back, not having realised he was the one being stared at now.

No wonder Grif had managed to keep his mouth shut through the recital of the Temple-takedown, Simmons found himself thinking before he gathered himself in embarrassment and sat up straight. And seeing how Grif seemed to have no plans to say anything even with all the staring, although his hands were twisting as if there was an actual fight going on in his head to keep from doing exactly that, Simmons quickly forced his jaw to unhinge just to break the moment.

“What?” Simmons said, and Grif shrugged.

“You’re usually the one to complain about these things, so, just wondering.”

“ _What?”_ Simmons squeaked again, and with an unexpected sense of annoyance, which he, too, was having trouble holding back on. “Complain about wh–?”

Grif nodded his head as if it made perfect sense what he had just said, gesturing to the people around them as he leaned closer to Simmons almost conspiratorially:

“The plan sucks.”

“Uh…”

“Or!” Grif exclaimed and pointed a finger up in an elaborative gesture. “Or, rather, there is no plan!”

“T-there is…” Simmons mumbled and crossed his arms, not really caring for the way Carolina’s slumped form in the corner seemed to keep an eye on them. “And it’s all we need.”

“You’re underestimating them, or us? I don’t know which, or if it’s overestimation instead, but Locus was good with plans. Efficient. But this? I mean, I know that’s the norm – we’re not exactly all about solid reasoning behind our moves, and that’s kinda been the trump card there, yeah, but.”

Grif fell quiet without a breath in between, just keeping his visor pointed steadily at Simmons.

Simmons dropped Grif’s gaze, feeling the move a necessary escape even as it could only be seen from the slight tilt of his chin to the right, away from Grif. He sighed and ignored the rest of the Reds and Blues arguing and yelling and doing whatever else all around them.

Grif was doing the same, it seemed, what with him suddenly starting to tap his finger to his armour with a sharp _click-click-click_ that had too much speed, too much force, and Simmons would have snapped if he hadn’t felt his throat shut down at the mere idea of doing exactly that. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t just point it out.

He didn’t want to acknowledge it, like he didn't want to question the way Grif now almost casually switched between his usual calm, boredom and whatever the hell _this_ was. 

“Just… Fine. You're right. But Locus is a… He _was_ a merc, and a pretty damn efficient one, sure, as we saw first hand…” Simmons attempted to make some point in response to Grif’s speech, but his words kept falling short. He groaned and threw his hands in the air, his eyes glued to the ceiling but the angle not enough to make him blind to the way Grif’s finger kept click-click-clicking against the metal of his knee.

“The plan is fine”, Simmons then hissed and waved a hand dismissively at Grif. Immediately after, he jumped to his feet and practically ran away to the cockpit, wanting the uncomfortable abnormality of the moment to pass without him having to be there to see it through.

Grif didn’t move, but his visor followed the maroon soldier’s hurried retreat in a steady arc.

_Click-click-click –_

“If you say so, Simmons.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Limbo of no control, no progress, no improvement; no words.


End file.
